


Fill the unforgiving minute

by confusedrambler



Series: The Hungry City [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth does his Best, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce Wayne is a Metahuman, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Origin Story, POV Alfred Pennyworth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 18:47:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20013079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confusedrambler/pseuds/confusedrambler
Summary: Title borrowed from Rudyard Kipling's 'If.' Title changed because I decided I hated it.The origin of the bat-- with a few tweaks to suit our universe.Featuring: Young punk Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth doing his Best, and part one of the Pennyworth-Gordon feud.





	Fill the unforgiving minute

**Author's Note:**

> A reminder about this verse:  
> *Edited*  
> These stories are not one linear tale, but several narrative pieces organized in a loose 5 act structure. The series is co-written, but I believe we’re now of one accord about basically everything.

Alfred was humming along with the last movement of his favorite classical piece when three gunshots and an aborted scream broke the relative silence of the night. For a nightmarish moment he was back in fatigues, hunkered against the nearest bulkhead and he flinched, arms flying to cover his face before reality rushed back in. He peeked out the window, breathing hard and berating himself. The war was years ago and the trouble-- whatever it might be-- was here and now. 

He lurched from the car and down the street, pulse hammering.

He burst into the alley just in time to spot a man in an old leather jacket disappear around the far corner, metal glinting in his hand. Alfred lunged forward but slipped, landing hard on the tacky pavement as the thief made his escape. He swore and moved to stand when something grabbed his ankle. Alfred startled and spun and the city stilled in an instant, time warping in interminable ways around this moment. 

Thomas Wayne grasped at the wound in his gut with one hand and Alfred’s ankle with the other, eyes bright and mouth working silently. Thomas, with Martha and little Bruce motionless behind him, curled into each other. There was a pit where his insides should be and he moved through syrup when he crawled to Thomas’s side, wiping his hands hastily on his shirt before pressing a fist as hard as he dared into the wound. 

“Alfred.” It was the ghost of a word, hardly audible over the distant cacophony of the city.

“You’ll be alright. It will all be fine, sir.” Part of him was impressed that he managed to sound so calm when the trenches flickered violently in the corner of his eye.

“No,” Thomas spasmed, face blanching as he clutched at Alfred’s hands “Bruce... help Bruce.”

“I will, I will. Save your strength, sir. Help is on the way.”

“Bruce… get to Bruce.” Thomas made a titanic effort to rise, but hardly got his head off the pavement before Alfred pushed him back against the street. It was too easy to hold him down.

“I’ll go. I’ll see to him, but you  _ must  _ stay put, sir.” Alfred pressed the other man’s hands into the wound, noting with a cold and distant horror that it hardly bled any longer. “Press here, Thomas. I’ll only be a moment, steady on.” 

The moment his hands left Thomas’s, Alfred scrambled to check on the other Waynes, acrid panic thick in the back of his throat. Martha’s eyes were wide, her mouth in a rictus of fear. His hands trembled as he rolled her off of Bruce, doing his best not to look at the hole at the base of her throat.

Beneath her, Bruce was ghostly pale. Blood was just beginning to clump in his hair and soaking through his shirt, though there was no wound immediately evident. Alfred could almost believe the boy was asleep. But his chest did not move and Alfred pressed shaking fingers to his throat, automatically reciting a prayer against what he was sure he would find.

_ Living God, deliver us from a world without justice and a future without mercy; in your mercy, establish justice, and in your justice, remember the mercy revealed to us. _

And just there-- a pulse, slow but strong, and an inhale so slight that Alfred almost missed it.

“Oh, thank the Lord,” Alfred breathed. He cupped Bruce’s cheek for the barest of moments before checking the boy’s skull for injury. He paused as his knuckle brushed against something warm and metallic. He gently turned Bruce’s head, heart stuttering at the sight of a crumpled bullet that, until now, had been hidden from view. Alfred picked up the bullet and turned it over in his palm, marvelling at Bruce’s luck. He didn’t know how long he stared at the bullet-- such a little thing-- when Bruce began to stir. Alfred pocketed the scrap of metal without a second thought and pressed his hand against Bruce’s chest, forestalling any effort to sit up.

“Be still, Master Bruce. Are you hurt?”

“Bruce’s eyes blinked open slowly, a dazed look on his face.

“Alfred? I’m tired. And  _ cold _ .” His nose crinkled. “And wet?”

“Yes, sir. You may be feeling some discomfort. I need you to lay still while I check something. Can you do that Master Bruce?”

Bruce nodded, his eyes slipping shut again and Alfred moved to check on Thomas. His heart fell when he saw the man’s eyes, half-lidded and vacant. Alfred’s hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. He made himself stop and breathe deeply until he succeeded in tamping down the clawing loss and anger and  _ hurt _ . There would be time for his own horror and grief later. Now, he needed to be completely present for his charge.

He could hear the sirens, faint but getting closer, as he turned back to Bruce. The child was beginning to stir again, his brow furrowed and the hint of a pout on his lips. Alfred crouched at his side, stilling him with a touch and doing his best to block the scene from view. 

“Master Bruce, be still. Can you open your eyes for me?”

Bruce complied while suppressing a yawn.

“Alfred, why do I have to stay on the ground? I want to go home.”

“Soon, sir. How do you feel?”

“My head hurts, but I’m okay. Can I get up now?” 

“Not just yet. Look at me, please. What do you remember about tonight?”

Bruce grumbled, but did as asked. His pout deepened into a frown as he tried to recall the night’s events. “We went to the theatre. The show was over and we were walking together.” His eyes widened at the memory. “We were walking together. Where’s Mom and Dad? Where did they go? I want  _ mom _ .”

Alfred smoothed the hair back from Bruce’s forehead and blinked away the burning behind his eyes. 

“I’m sorry, Bruce. But I’m afraid your parents are… I’m afraid I’m the only one left.”

Everything happened too quickly for Alfred to keep up after that. 

Bruce bolted upright,  _ saw,  _ and promptly vomited. And in spite of all his resolve to be whatever Bruce needed him to be in this moment, Alfred floundered. When the police car pulled into the alley, sirens wailing and lights flashing shortly after that, Bruce was in hysterics. Nothing he did could calm the boy and as soon as the ambulance arrived, the paramedics whisked him away. Alfred tried to keep an eye on him even as an officer cornered him for questioning as the other looked over the garish scene. 

Alfred dealt with the police as best he could, but he was finding it hard to think past the bodies in the alley and the looming immensity that was the knowledge that he was, truly, the only one left to care for Bruce. He’d known, dimly, that it was a possibility. Thomas and Martha had told him as much after they’d changed their will. He’d known it in much the same way that he knew now that he was likely the number one suspect for their murders.

Alfred recounted everything that had happened that night-- the gunshots, the man fleeing from the scene, everything. But he got the distinct impression that Officer Gordon was unimpressed with his story. Alfred shifted on his feet, eyes darting back to Bruce, now bundled into a shock blanket and having a scrape on his palm bandaged. He was the picture of misery and exhaustion, though someone had finally cleaned the blood from his face. Officer Gordon cleared his throat and flipped his notepad shut decisively, winning back Alfred’s attention.

“Well, Mr. Pennyworth, I think that’s all we can do here. We’ll need to go down to the station for a few tests before I can release you-- perfectly routine, you understand. So if you’ll wait in the back of the squad car, we’ll hand off the scene and be on our way.”

Alfred stiffened.

“I can’t leave Master Bruce, Officer. Not after everything that’s happened. Surely you can understand that.”

Gordon’s lips thinned into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I understand your concern, Mr. Pennyworth. But until the state determines guardianship, I’m afraid he’ll have to stay in custody. He’ll be taken care of, I can assure you of that.”

“ _ I _ am his guardian now.” Alfred said witheringly. “It’s in the will. In the event of Thomas and Martha Wayne’s passing, I have sole guardianship of Bruce until he comes of age.”

Gordon’s eyebrow rose.

“Is that so? Well, that’s quite interesting. When the will is produced, I’ll be sure to take a look at it. Until then, I’m afraid we’ll be doing this by the book.”

Alfred seethed at the implication, but forced his tone to stay even.

“Quite so. And what of the car?”

Gordon tutted and guided him towards the backseat of the squad car with another insincere smile.

“Oh, there’s no need to worry about the car, Mr. Pennyworth. I can assure you, the department is looking after it as we speak.”

Alfred ducked into the squad car without another word.

* * *

The police held him the full 24 hours before they finally released him and allowed him to take Bruce home with strict orders to stay in the country. As if he would leave when there were two funerals to arrange and the shell of a boy to care for. 

Officer Gordon was absolutely convinced that Alfred had murdered the Waynes. He could see it in his eyes. But he had no proof, Alfred reminded himself. He was innocent and there was nothing the man could do to change that.

It would all work out; it had to.

* * *

He found the bullet in his suit pocket three days later. He tucked it into the box that held Martha’s rings and Thomas’s cufflinks and buried it in the back of his nightstand drawer. 

He didn’t mention it to Bruce.

* * *

It had been, Alfred reflected, a rather trying few years.

Between Bruce’s understandable moodiness and James Gordon’s flawless impression of a bad penny, Alfred had been quite busy keeping the household running for the past five years. He had, thus far, done an admirable job despite the hurdles the relentless officer-- detective now, he supposed-- kept throwing in his path. Eventually, he would give up on the ridiculous notion that Alfred had had anything to do with Thomas and Martha’s deaths. But for now, he mused, he must simply grin and bear it. 

He checked the time. Right on schedule, he swapped out the pan of roast chicken and vegetables for a sheet of rolls, gave the pot of gravy a quick stir and put on the kettle. He wiped his hands on his apron and briskly strode to the foyer. Pausing at the stairs just long enough for his voice to carry up the stairs, he called Bruce down for dinner and opened the front door just before Detective Gordon could knock.

The Detective grinned ruefully and slipped his hand back into his pocket. He was in plain clothes today, as he often was when he came by for their monthly check-ins.

“Mr. Pennyworth.”

“Detective.”

Gordon stepped past the butler and moved towards the dining room, not bothering to wait for Alfred to guide him. They had, after all, done this dance before. Alfred returned to the kitchen just as the kettle began to whistle. He swished the boiling water through the china pot, dropped in a ball of the Assam tea blend he reserved for Gordon’s visits, and carried the tray into the dining room. Gordon had settled himself in his usual place and took the offered cup of tea with the expected grimace.

“Still no coffee, Mr. Pennyworth?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said primly. “Caffeine isn’t good for growing boys, you know.”

The boy in question loped into the room with a smile, managing not to trip over his own feet through some miracle. He seemed even lankier than he had this morning, if that were possible. He was growing like a weed and had an appetite to match.

“Detective Gordon!” His voice cracked on the last syllable and Alfred ducked back into the kitchen to hide his smile. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. He kept an ear on the two’s conversation as he pulled the bread from the oven and piled the food onto a serving tray.

“Hello, Bruce.” Gordon chuckled. “How have you been, son?”

“Same as ever. School’s a real drag. But what’s going on with you? You nail the guy who knifed the O’Malley girl yet?”

“Now hang on, you know Mr. Pennyworth doesn’t like it when I talk shop. Besides, I’m more interested in what happened to your arm.”

Alfred brought the loaded tray back into the dining room in time to catch the tail end of Bruce’s dismissive shrug, the strap of his sling wrinkling the collar of his uniform shirt.

“Went on a school trip and took a fall while I was skiing. It’s not so bad, but they had to call Alfred for permission to take me to the doctor and that took ages.” He grabbed at a roll as soon as the tray was in reach, but Alfred smacked his hand away with ease.

“Patience, Master Bruce. Guests first.”

Bruce grumbled, but allowed Gordon to serve himself. Alfred eyed his charge and seated himself at the head of the table.

“You know, he’s not being entirely honest, Detective. His teachers were quite panicked when they called me. Apparently, Master Bruce took it upon himself to fall down the side of a mountain. He was exceptionally lucky. Most people would have broken their necks, not just their arm.”

Bruce wrinkled his nose in protest, serving himself both chicken legs and a mound of roast vegetables when Gordon pushed the food his way.

“That’s not fair, Alfred. I’m pretty sure I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Pretty sure?” Gordon interrupted, his eyebrows raised.

“He doesn’t remember the fall.” Alfred said dryly.

Dinner continued in much the same way. Bruce and Gordon traded stories and Alfred stepped in to expound, correct, and redirect as necessary. Usually when talk veered towards more grisly affairs. Bruce had been fostering a rather disheartening interest in true crime lately, particularly in the violent cases. Alfred prayed it was just a phase, but he didn’t hold out much hope with James Gordon popping up to pique the boy’s interest further every month. 

Eventually, the last bites of dessert were consumed and Bruce was sent upstairs to finish his homework. It was just him and Gordon. The other man cleaned his glasses deliberately and stood behind his chair, meeting Alfred stare for stare.

“I do hope you know, Detective,” Alfred said quietly. “That I would never harm Master Bruce. Nor let any harm come to him knowingly. I never have.”

“I’d like to think so, Mr. Pennyworth.” Gordon replied evenly. “But I’m going to stick around to make sure of it.”

* * *

If Alfred had thought the first five years caring for Master Bruce were trying, nothing could have prepared him for the last. True, when Bruce had come of age and received his inheritance, Lieutenant Gordon had finally admitted that perhaps he’d been too hasty in his judgement of Alfred’s motives and stopped checking in quite so often. But Bruce himself had become such a hellion in his absence that Alfred was at his wit’s end.

The boy had been sneaking out and getting into mischief for most of his teenage life, but when he graduated at seventeen, things had gotten quite out of hand. He’d spent the last two years burning through a business degree and dabbling in street fighting, chemistry, and anything else he could get his hands on-- including, for one God-awful month, actual explosives. Alfred had been forced to confiscate Bruce’s credit cards and clear the grounds of anything resembling a chemical, resorting to using nothing but baking soda, citrus, and strong vinegar to keep the manor as clean as he could. But Bruce, with his accursed resourcefulness, had simply turned to arson instead. 

Alfred was convinced that the only reason they hadn’t both been arrested yet was the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Drake, their closest neighbors, were rarely home to witness the horrors going on at Wayne Manor. That, and Bruce had become a dab hand at disguises when he ventured into Gotham itself. Alfred only had himself to blame when it came to that particular development. He regretted ever showing the boy how to do proper stage makeup.

He sighed and gave up on scouring the latest set of scorch marks from the solarium floor, feeling every bit his age. Master Bruce would be turning twenty this week and God in heaven only knew what he would get up to next. Whatever it was, it would be trouble with a capital ‘T’.

Alfred opened the door to the patio and emptied the cleaning bucket into the back garden, noting that more snow had fallen overnight. He’d rather hoped to go another day without shoveling snow, but they were running low on groceries and needs must. Alfred detoured to the study to update Master Bruce on the day’s plans-- it being ten o’clock on a Tuesday, Bruce would just be finishing his morning tea and newspaper before setting off to wreak havoc on the unsuspecting. 

Bruce was exactly where Alfred expected him to be. But rather than reading the news, he was perusing a guide book to Tibet, with various pamphlets and guide books stacked on the coffee table. Alfred raised an eyebrow.

“Planning your spring break already, Master Bruce?”

Bruce blinked and put the guide down, the slightest tinge to his cheeks.

“Not… exactly. I’ve been meaning to tell you, but I wasn’t sure how.”

“How to tell me  _ what _ ? Sir.” The words were sterner than he intended, but Bruce rarely told him good things these days.

“You remember I graduate this semester.”

“It’s not something I’m likely to forget. The announcement cards have already been ordered.”

Bruce frowned.

“Yes, well. I’m not-- that is, I do intend to graduate, but--”

Alfred could feel a migraine coming on.

“But?”

Bruce stood and went to look out the window, avoiding Alfred’s flat stare.

“I’ve decided that I won’t be taking a position at Wayne Enterprises. The company’s been doing fine without me and it will stay that way. My being there won’t make a difference.”

Alfred measured his words carefully, watching the line of Bruce’s shoulders-- not quite as broad as Thomas’s, but closer every day.

“I… see. And what do you intend to do instead?”

“Something that will make a difference. The world is changing, Alfred. Can’t you feel it? Gotham is getting worse every day. The GCPD is full of crooks and the government might as well be run by the mob. People are afraid to leave home after dark and the Narrows is a cesspit. Things have got to change. I’m going to  _ make  _ them change.” Bruce turned to face him, eyes gleaming and chin stuck forward in defiance.

Alfred moved further into the room and sat, very carefully, on the edge of the nearest arm chair.

“And how exactly do you plan to do that, sir? Do you intend to become an officer of the law? Or will you become a politician? Or perhaps you believe your time is best spent as a lobbyist.”

“No, Alfred. Can’t you see? That’s not enough. None of that is enough, it won’t change anything! Gordon’s been trying to clean up GCPD for years. And the government is so corrupt you can’t even get on the ticket unless you’ve sold your soul to Falcone or Maroni!” Bruce was pacing the room now, getting louder and louder.

“What else is there?” Alfred said acidly. “There’s only so much one man can do, sir. Even a man of your means can only change so much. You can’t possibly believe you can force the city to change just because you will it so.”

“I can and I will!” Bruce glared at him before deflating, slightly. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “At least, I’ve got to try. Things can get better, I know it. Look at Metropolis-- they’ve been having trouble for years, but now the people have hope again. Someone took the law into their own hands and the entire city is rising up to be better, Alfred. And I know the same thing can happen in Gotham, if I--”

Alfred cut in with a disbelieving snort.

“Master Bruce, you can’t seriously be referring to that, that  _ Superman  _ character. My God, I’m not even sure he’s real, but if he is, he isn’t human. Is that what you’ve been-- why in God’s name do you think-- what could you possibly-- this is just  _ absurd! _ ”

Bruce flushed, hands tightening into fists.

“It’s  _ not! _ I know I can do this, Alfred. I’ve thought about this for a long time and I’ve already been practicing and finding people to teach me. All I need is more training and I can--”

“Is that what you think?” Alfred surged to his feet, nostrils flaring. “You think that if you learn how to throw a punch and traipse around the city dressed like a loon that things will  _ change? _ ” He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and inhaled sharply, forcing himself to quiet. 

“I have not raised you these past ten years to watch you die on a fool’s quest. I can see now that I’ve been too lenient with you.” He glared at Bruce who was practically shaking with fury. “You will not entertain such preposterous ideas any longer. Do as you wish-- enter the police academy, go back to school, become a ruddy politician. Find something else,  _ anything  _ else that makes you happy and I’ll stand by your side. But I will  _ not  _ hear another word about becoming a bloody vigilante.” He waited and stared Bruce down, letting his words sink in. 

Bruce silently met him glare for glare and it was Alfred who looked away first. 

“I’m going to clear off the ruddy driveway. When I come back from the grocer’s I expect to find your school work done and the scorch marks in the solarium  _ gone _ . There will be no more  _ experiments _ , no more  _ arson _ , and you will behave like the civilized young man I raised you to be. Good  _ day.” _

The next three months could be called, if one were feeling charitable, an exercise in patience for them both. 

Though he did stop lighting things on fire, Bruce refused to back down from his plans. He simply ignored Alfred’s repeated emphatic protests and broke into the safe where Alfred kept the credit cards whenever he needed to make a purchase, methodically planning his journey as if it was just another gap year. 

Alfred, for his part, was running himself ragged trying to counter Bruce’s movements. He changed the safe combination weekly and tore the spark plugs out of every car they owned, hiding them in the back of his personal linens closet. He left pamphlets about alternative careers pinned to Bruce’s door and served Bruce’s least favorite foods. He tried everything he could think of to make Bruce see sense, but nothing at all could change his mind.

In his desperation, he enlisted Lieutenant Gordon in his efforts to keep Bruce home. He knew Gordon was suspicious of him and that he was unlikely to side with Alfred about anything. But he’d hoped that with a daughter of his own, and being something of a mentor to Bruce, that Gordon would agree that a solo trip around the globe-- never mind the reason-- was ill advised. To Alfred’s complete dismay, he did not. Bruce won him over easily and their chat ended with Gordon wishing him safe travels.

With no allies to aid him and the end of May fast approaching, Alfred spent his nights deep in prayer. It was, of course, no use.

Bruce graduated with his business degree on 24 May. On 25 May, he would leave for Brazil.

The night before Bruce’s departure, Alfred did not sleep. Instead, he sat on the edge of his bed and wept, wondering just where he had gone wrong. The sun was just creeping over the horizon when Alfred rose and washed his face. With deliberate care, he retrieved the box at the very back of his nighstand’s drawer.

There, nestled in crushed velvet, were the cuff links, the rings, and the bullet. Alfred touched each reverently and closed his hand around the bullet. He drew it out and stared at it for several minutes before slipping it into the front pocket of his coat and closing the box with a sigh. He tucked the box back into the drawer and straightened his suit coat. Master Bruce would be departing any moment. It was time to say goodbye.

He found Bruce in the foyer, shifting from foot to foot as a taxi idled in the drive. He looked up sharply at Alfred’s entrance, shoulders relaxing when he recognized the butler.

“Alfred. I… wasn’t sure you’d come.”

Alfred stopped just short of touching distance and scrutinized the young man before him. He was dressed simply, as if he was only going out for a day on the town. But his eyes were shadowed steel and Alfred very much doubted that he had gotten a wink of sleep. Alfred smiled wanly.

“I have watched over you since you were a babe, Master Bruce. And yet, this may be the last time I see your face. The devil himself could not stop me.”

Bruce’s eyes softened.

“Don’t talk like that, Alfred. I’ll be back in Gotham before you know it. Promise.”

“Do not make promises you can’t keep, Bruce.” Alfred said sharply. His hand flew to his mouth and he shook his head ruefully. “I... apologize. I did not come here to fight. I came to ask a favor.”

Bruce’s lips thinned and he looked away.

“What sort of favor?”

Alfred took the bullet from his pocket, keeping it fisted at his side.

“You know that I was there the night your parents died. I have been completely honest with you and the police about the events that night, honest in every way but one.”

Bruce’s eyes jumped to meet his. Alfred took Bruce’s hand and dropped the bullet into his palm.

“That night, I found this by your body and stuck it in my pocket in all the confusion. I confess, I’d quite forgotten about it until I found it several days later. By that time, of course, Officer Gordon was quite taken with the idea that I had some part in your parents’ murders.” Alfred held up a hand to forestall Bruce’s protest. “I did myself no favors that night. He was only doing his job. But I knew that if I turned this over to the police, I would be signing my own warrant. I’ve kept it since, as a reminder.” Alfred closed Bruce’s fingers over the scrap of metal. “Carry it with you. Let it be a reminder to keep your wits about you-- think before you act. And remember that death is always closer than you think. And above all else.” Alfred stopped, throat tightening. “Above all else-- be  _ safe _ .”


End file.
